Chrysalis
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: Pamela Isley is going through some changes...


___This story was written for the Free For All Fic For All-or FFAFFA for short-over on the Ask the Squishykins tumblr, wherein Twinings and I offer ourselves up to fill as many fic prompts as humanly possible with stories ranging in length from 100 to 16,000 words. The current round runs until May 1st, 2014, so if you'd like a fic written to your custom specifications, please don't hesitate to drop by and ask for it! :)_

_Prompts: __"You know how some artists like to depict Ivy as more plant than human (ex. new adventures green-tinted skin)? Ivy dealing with plant body horror during combat or just during her daily life."; Killer Croc and Poison Ivy._

_Warnings: The nature of Poison Ivy's pheromone powers is always a sticky thing to deal with when it comes to consent. Dub con, dub con everywhere._

_Notes: Writing this went a little bit like this. "Okay! Body horror! I can do that. Build up, a little more build up, some more build up SEX SCENE wait what." I'm not really sure what happened there. That bit has been edited down to fit with ff dot net's ratings policy-what was an NC-17 explicit threesome is now a bit of PG-13ish kissing-but the more lemony version of this story is on AO3 under this pen name if that's more your speed.  
_

* * *

_I'm thirsty._

The voice is the barest hint of a whisper, a rustling of leaves in the wind, but it jerks her from sleep like an electric jolt to her spine. With a quick intake of breath, her eyes flying open, her heart takes off at a sprint and her pulse thuds in her ears, rapid and thready. She's sitting up in bed before she knows what's happened, blankets all knotted up around her limbs, her back rigid with alarm.

The bedroom is dark, the only source of light the glow of a flickering streetlamp that can't quite seem to decide if it wants to stay on or not. It streams unsteadily through her window blinds, reflecting off the mirror over her dresser and throwing a dim, bluish cast over the assortment of potted plants scattered on its surface. Nothing sinister lurks in the gloomy darkness, no burglar, no Batman. Pamela Isley puts a clammy hand to her forehead, releasing a puff of breath that's pure relief. Tongue darting out to wet her parched lips, she lies back on her pillow, the cotton pillowslip cool and smooth against her skin. The room is empty, just as it's supposed to be; there's no one at her bedside, murmuring in her ear. It was just a dream.

She clutches the covers and pulls them over her shoulder, rolling onto her side. The last of her anxiety is soothed away by that knowledge as her eyes drift shut.

Just a dream.

* * *

Pamela loves an overcast sky, when the gray clouds blot out the sun and threaten rain but never deliver. Days like this are perfect for working in her greenhouse, tending her flowers and experimenting with new plant food formulas. Today, the bleak weather just makes her feel lazy. Sluggish. She spins her pencil idly on her desktop, not really looking at her notes. All she wants to do is climb in a chair and snuggle into the cushions. It's a day for doing nothing more strenuous than reading. A hot cup of tea, a cozy blanket and a fashion magazine sound like the best thing in the world right now.

Her eyes trail over the newspaper clipping tacked to the wall. A golden, pink and white variegated tulip—rare, beautiful, unique—is being transported all the way from Holland for a garden show. She touches the photograph tenderly. Uprooted and carried around like a trophy rather than a living thing, the precious darling deserves her tender loving care and an honored place in her garden. But she just doesn't feel up to scheming at the moment.

With a sigh, she gets up from her desk and goes to make herself a cup of Darjeeling, intent on curling up with a book for awhile. She hopes she isn't coming down with something. She can't afford to get the flu with a perfect heist on the horizon.

* * *

Beautiful women are no strangers to stares, and Pamela is no exception. Casting aside the pointlessness of false modesty, she knows that she's attractive enough to get a fair amount of attention everywhere she goes, just for the crime of looking the way that Hollywood says she ought to. Further, she knows she has…_assets_ that make heads turn. Whether all dolled up in a va-va-voom dress or in a simple cotton tank and slacks, she's used to a certain level of…_friendliness_ from the people she interacts with on a daily basis—an especially warm smile from the bank teller, a door held open for her at the grocery store, the occasional wolf whistle or honk of a car horn when she walks down the avenue…

Something is different today, she can't put her finger on it. Though she looks particularly grubby in a pair of ripped jeans with grass stains on the knees and a wide collared sweatshirt that only covers one shoulder, more men and women stare openly. It's odd, but nothing she can't shrug off. Her hair _does_ look especially good this morning. Or maybe it's the determined light in her eyes as she mulls over her plans for the tulip that keeps drawing curious, admiring looks. She has had a bit of a smile on her lips all day, self-satisfied and confident.

Yes. That must be it.

* * *

Damn it all.

In disgust, Pamela throws her pipette aside and strips off her gloves. Another worthless formula has done nothing but wither one of her babies. Where did she go wrong? There's nothing in the notes that supports this outcome. It _should_ have worked. Her finger trails down the page, tracing a line beside the column of equations she's been working from. There must be a mistake somewhere. Something she's overlooked. Human error is not outside the realm of possibility, she's been at this for hours…

A growl of frustration escapes from between clenched teeth. Absently, she picks up her ink pen, turning it over and tapping the cap on the lab table. How is she ever going to keep these roses from going extinct if she can't find a soil enhancer that will keep them _alive_, much less help them flourish?

Pamela sighs, her shoulders slumping, and cups the pale, withered flower in her free hand. Poor thing, she thinks. If only—

The petals open, unfurling a millimeter or two, and stretch toward her fingers. The movement is slight, but it startles her anyway.

With a blink, Pamela shakes her head. It is long past time for a break if she's starting to hallucinate from overwork.

The rose droops when she withdraws her hand, as though overcome by a sudden depression that weighs it down. If she didn't know any better, she'd think it was…_sad_. Pamela pushes the thought away. She loves plants, perhaps even half-believes the ESP studies done about their ability to respond to outside stimuli and thrive or wilt depending on what sort they're exposed to, but she's still a scientist. A melancholy rose is a ridiculous fancy.

* * *

She twists the bottom of the chapstick and fights to get at the last of the stuff at the bottom of the plastic tube. With a fingertip, she slathers it on her lips, filling in the places where her skin has cracked and tosses the empty container in her recycling bin. It's outrageous: she's gone through two tubes and three trial sized bottles of lotion in the past week. The weather isn't even that dry—in fact it's fairly average for early summer in Gotham, warm but not very humid. Yet, here she is, her skin having the sort of nervous breakdown usually reserved for the winter months. It doesn't make any sense.

Pamela swallows the last few ounces of water in her bottle. She's refilled it four times in the last two hours, but she's still thirsty. Her skin is papery and she can't seem to get enough hydration? _Definitely_ coming down with something. What, she doesn't know, but whatever it is, she hopes it doesn't last.

* * *

The steam of the shower feels fantastic. The mirror is all fogged up and there's a puddle on the bathroom floor when she steps out of the tub. For the first time in days, she feels quenched. She doesn't even bother with a towel. Naked and dripping, she strolls across her apartment and stops to look out the window, not caring who might see. The sun warms her skin divinely.

Maybe she isn't sick, she thinks. Maybe she's just been working too hard and staying cooped up in the lab too long. Maybe what she really needs is a few spa days—time in a steam room, a hot rock massage, some basking in the sun…she's never been much of a sun worshiper, but if this is a fraction of what it feels like, she could be convinced to convert.

Mmm, that sounds wonderful. She stretches her arms over her head, reaching for the sunshine. Her damp skin feels amazing, warmed by the golden light filtering in from overhead. Something about it streaming through the glass is so inviting.

Framed by a window directly across the alley, her neighbor does a very good job of looking scandalized by the display, but she has obvious appreciation in her eyes. It may even be lust, though Pamela gets the distinct impression that her admirer is reluctant to admit to herself that's what it is. A mischievous impulse overtakes her, from where she doesn't know, and she crooks an inviting finger at the woman who's staring at her. In response, the peeper's cheeks flush crimson.

Pamela laughs when the blinds slam shut.

* * *

The clerk at the bodega down the street doesn't charge her for the chicken sandwich she picks up on the way home from scouting the expo center where the garden show will be held. He says it's part of a special promotion they're having to increase sales. It doesn't sound too far fetched, though the way his eyes trace her curves hungrily gives her pause, but free is free. He's cute, and seems harmless enough. She even finds herself flirting with him, to her own surprise. Pamela has never been what one might consider a prude, but she's been particularly feisty these past few days, experiencing more pleasure in tantalizing those who find her attractive and dropping them cold.

It's their own fault, she reasons. They've been drooling over her so much lately they're just asking for it.

* * *

The apartment building rooftop is perfect for sunbathing. Pamela adjusts her sunglasses and rolls onto her back, drinking in the hot rays of the sun. Oh, it's just so _good_…

The rooftop access door opens with a creak and swings closed. She doesn't bother to open her eyes until something blocks the light.

"Excuse me, ma'am."

Two police officers—one male, one female—stand over her. Strangely, neither looks terribly perturbed about finding a redhead in nothing but a pair of string bikini bottoms lying at their feet. More…intrigued. A touch confused, maybe.

"Is there a problem, officers?" Pamela surveys them over the rims of her sunglasses, her gaze making its way from their shiny shoes to their faces. He's tall and solid, the promise of a well muscled body outlined under the tailored uniform, with a square jaw and sparkling hazel eyes. She's round and toned in all the right places with a wide, inviting mouth and chestnut hair. Mmm…quite a pair.

"Topless sunbathing is prohibited anywhere but the beach, ma'am. We've had complaints."

She sits up and gives them both a lazy, sensual smile. "Really? I've never had any of those before."

Tellingly, the male officer's gaze drops for a moment, then drags itself back up to her face with marked reluctance. Oh, he's _fun_. "Would you stand up please, ma'am?"

There doesn't seem to be a point in covering up, so Pamela doesn't bother. She stands, her every movement graceful and measured, and brushes her hair over her shoulder. "Anything you say, _sir._"

The female officer's throat bobs, evidence of a hasty, nervous gulp. Emboldened by something within her that she doesn't understand, Pamela reaches out to trace the curve of the other woman's face. Though she expects to have her wrist snatched and her arm twisted behind her back for such a gesture, it doesn't happen. The officer leans into the caress, her eyelids dropping until her eyes are nothing but slits. Her lips part, inviting. There's something unknowable here, something like a drug that passes between them, infecting both of them, and her.

His belt buckle comes undone easily in her hands. The buttons of the policewoman's uniform top pop from their holes in rapid succession. Pamela isn't sure how it happens. It seems hazy and unreal, a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. One minute she's noticing how handsome he is, how full and lush the lips of his partner are, the next, as though in response to her errant thoughts, both their hands and fingers are roaming over her skin with passionate intent and they are crushing her between their bodies.

A month ago, this would have seemed odd. For some reason, now, she just accepts it as a natural part of the day's course. Breakfast, sunbathing, smoldering encounter with a couple of police officers…on some level she recognizes, distantly, that this isn't right, that it doesn't make any sense, but something stronger within her gags the rational part of her brain and fogs her reason until it's all but nonexistent.

She doesn't know about protect, she thinks as the policewoman's mouth closes over hers, but the GCPD sure has the _serve_ part down pat.

* * *

She wakes up on the roof, alone, so tanned that she's nearing sunburned. She moans and stretches on her towel, vaguely aware that her bikini bottoms must have come undone when she rolled over in her sleep.

"I should have dreams like that more often," she says to the air with a naughty grin that reshapes itself into a yawn.

She takes a cool bath to soothe her skin and falls into bed, content with a day off well spent.

* * *

Pamela is reading the newspaper over her breakfast when she notices the stain around her nails. It looks like…green ink? Reaching for the napkin next to her plate of waffles, she dips it in her water glass and scrubs at the discoloration. It won't come off. Odd. It must be the result of one of the chemicals she's been working with lately, but which? This won't do. Gloves or not, she can't get back to work if she's contaminated with an unknown substance.

She gets up from the kitchen table, folding the newspaper and putting it aside. An article title—not the headline, but in a smaller font—goes unnoticed on the page.

_Police Probe Mysterious Deaths of 2 Patrol Officers - Poisoning Suspected_

* * *

Pamela twists the knob on the microscope, inspecting the scrapings from the skin around her nails. She recognizes what she's seeing, but it's puzzling. Chlorophyll? She works with plants, sure, she could get it on her hands, absolutely, but she's washed her fingers a dozen times with every cleanser she can think of. It's a stain that won't come off, like the stuff is embedded in her skin.

She draws back from the microscope, brows knit together. She couldn't have…no, her experiments with mutating plants? Could some of the protein compound have bound itself to her skin? That's troublesome.

Her watch buzzes, reminding her it's time to check on the centrifuge. It's late. She'll run some tests tomorrow.

* * *

It's hard to concentrate in the lab. It sounds like there are kids outside the greenhouse chattering amongst themselves. She pushes the petri dish away and gets to her feet.

The mumbling gets louder as she approaches the door flanked by greenery on either side. She opens it abruptly, and pokes her head out. "Hey, knock it off!"

There's a lot of shushing and some giggling, but she sees no children in the immediate area around the greenhouse. They must be hiding.

Hopeful that they'll quiet down for good, she goes back to work.

* * *

Pamela wakes up with a yawn and stumbles into the bathroom. She uses the toilet, washes her hands, and shrieks when she sees herself in the mirror. She pulls her hair back from her forehead, inspecting the spidery tendrils of green that reach from her scalp toward her eyebrows. In the mirror, she sees the green ink-like discoloration has spread from her nails to the second knuckle of each finger, overwhelming the natural color of her skin.

Leaving the bathroom, she strips out of her nightclothes and dresses. She pulls a brush through her hair as she walks past her dresser.

_I'm thirsty_.

Her head snaps around toward the sound of the voice, but there's nothing there.

No, that's wrong, she realizes, there _is_ something there. The potted plants. She approaches and reaches out her hand to touch the soil of one of the ferns. It's dry.

The hairbrush falls from her other hand and hits the floor with a dull thud.

* * *

Blood tests come first. Then, skin scrapings. After that, biopsies. She doesn't really have the equipment for in-depth tests on humans, but it's enough to get by. The results are bizarre. Nonsensical. She needs to do a DNA test, but she doesn't have the supplies here. A trip to the drugstore, at the very least, is necessary for some basics.

She bundles herself up in a trench coat, gloves and a wide brimmed hat. It's the only way to cover the greening of her skin.

* * *

Men follow her on the street with dreamy, stupid looks on their faces, reminiscent of cartoons being enticed by the odor of a fresh baked pie. They don't harass her, just follow in a daze, as though she's the pied piper and they're hypnotized rats. Or zombies.

Her pace quickens, high heels clacking on the sidewalk. _What is going on_?

* * *

The first human parts of her to go are her eyelashes. She wouldn't even notice if not for their dropping on her notepad in front of her when she rubs her eyes from exhaustion. She takes a compact from her purse and opens it to look at her face. Ringing her eyes, in place of the lashes she's known all her life, is plant matter. It resembles very dark barley, thick and bristled, almost as though she were wearing mascara so heavy it has started to clump. Pamela runs her fingertips over the new growth and gulps.

* * *

She calls Langstrom. At first he's reluctant, but she shows up on his doorstep and pleads with him. She realizes she must have some hold over him when his eyes start to glaze and he lets her use his lab for the last of the tests. Francine isn't happy about it.

Most come back inconclusive. A few come back with…_plant_ DNA.

* * *

Her nails grow brittle and brown at the tips of her dark green fingers. She tries not to look at them while she works, but they become impossible to ignore when they finally start breaking and peeling away from her skin. Beneath them lies a hard, dark material that looks and feels like tree bark. It's not as distressing as when her hair starts to come out in clumps, revealing an undergrowth of bright red that feels soft and fine like corn silk.

* * *

The greenhouse is impossible to work in. She can't focus. The plants _won't shut up_.

(Somewhere in her head, she realizes how crazy that sounds.)

She has to get out. She has to find somewhere that isn't green. Somewhere she can think without a million voices not her own cluttering up her thoughts. She all but staggers along the streets, searching for somewhere that's made of nothing but concrete. Gotham seems like it should have no plants, but she has never been so keenly aware of every blade of grass pushing up through the sidewalk. They talk to her, to each other, converse about things she doesn't understand.

Pamela is almost tempted to find Batman for help.

* * *

How she gets to the sewers, she doesn't know. Everything between fifth avenue and forty-second street is a blur. The only plants here are little patches of moss that mumble in slow, syrupy voices almost too low to be heard. It's not perfect, but it will do until she can figure something else out.

She slouches against a wall to rest.

* * *

Moving. She's moving.

Pamela wakes up in a pair of large arms. They feel secure, but cool to the touch. Scaly, bumpy, odd. She can't see what has a hold of her in the dark. Her instinct is to struggle.

"Calm, cher. I'm not gon' hurt."

A Cajun accent, deep and resonant enough to be frightening if it wants to, but gentle to her ears. She shivers, opening her eyes as wide as they'll go to try and see anything. Only the vaguest outline of her…savior? Captor? is visible. "Put me down."

"When we get where we goin', I will."

She tries to concentrate, to harness the powers of persuasion she knows she must have. A sweet smell fills the air around her, something like tea roses and jasmine with a musk beneath. "You _will_ do what I say."

The darkness growls at her. The sound reminds her of a barely restrained animal. "Don't do that. Having a hard time keepin' my head as it is."

He walks awhile longer, then rounds a corner or two. A shaft of light cuts through the blackness from overhead. It blinds her for a moment. At last she gets a good look at her escort. She knows his face from the newspapers, a green lizard thing with a long snout and razor sharp teeth. "You're Killer Croc."

Killer Croc breathes heavily, the pupils in his yellow eyes dilating. While he's resisting her…powers…he is not entirely unaffected. "And you're in trouble."

The statement alarms her. Is it a threat? An observation? "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Her feet touch the ground as he puts her down gently. Her legs feel weak and wobbly; it must be from the lack of sunshine and water. One of his massive claws brushes her hair aside, the sharp tips tracing the tangle of green veins on her forehead. "You're not the only one who's ever become a monster, cher."

Monster? Is…is that what she's becoming? "I'm not—"

He silences her with a hand over her mouth. "I know a guy. He can help."

Pamela doesn't understand. She can't think of anyone who could possibly help her, and she's traveled in botany circles for years. How could Killer Croc possibly know anyone?

"I take you to him, if you let me." His expression seems completely genuine.

Strange, how tears spring to her eyes, hot and stinging. The offer of assistance breaks her fragile composure. She's been so near the breaking point for so long that she just falls apart, sinking to the ground and wrapping her arms around herself. She doesn't sob, just takes a few rattling breaths.

Killer Croc's grip is not rough as he scoops her up into his arms. "No crying, cher. We got a long drive ahead of us."

She buries her face in his shoulder. "Where are we going?"

"Little town in Louisiana," she feels the rumble of his voice in his chest. "Called Houma."

* * *

_Afterthoughts to think about: __Houma, Louisiana is the home of Swamp Thing, whose powers are quite similar to Ivy's and who also started his life as a human being. His assistance during her transition from human to plant makes entirely too much sense. As Killer Croc has a friendship with Swamp Thing established in some very obscure canon, and has experienced his own transformation—whether it's from his skin condition worsening or the later mutations he underwent—that would make him sympathetic to Pam's plight, he's the perfect go-between the two characters. Tada._


End file.
